Red Wren
by HarmonicLark
Summary: "I want my life to be free. Free from my past." Teresa Lisbon is aware that the pieces don't fit. Patrick Jane is not himself, and it worries her. The picture constructs itself, but not before Jane has done the irreversible. Budding Jisbon, dark. Second to last chapter added!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Dying Flame**

 _A Robin Redbreast in a cage_

 _Puts all of Heaven in a rage_

 _A Skylark wounded on the wing_

 _Doth make a cherub cease to sing_

 _He who shall hurt the little [ Red ] Wren_

 _Shall never be beloved by men._

 _William Blake- Three Things to Remember_

Harsh pounding on the metallic door echoed throughout the still room. City lights were prominent in the inked sky, although the windows in the repurposed apartment on the tallest floor of the police building were clouded with dust and grime. The room itself was dimly lit with only the street lamps as a source of light; one might assume that the occupant had turned the lights off for the night, but on the contrary, he hadn't bothered to switch the bulb on in the first place.

The knocking grew louder with every pound, more desperate. The unnamed knocker spoke.

"Jane, open the door!"

Silence. The wooden surroundings echoed no reverberation of a reply.

Another voice, feminine and authoritative, presented itself.

"Shoot the lock," the voice commanded.

Subsequently, a shot was fired at the door. The sound of hinges protesting against movement was heard for a split second as footfalls thundered on the floorboards.

The voices belonged to two of the people entering the room, Agent Lisbon and Agent Cho of the CBI investigative unit, with agents Van Pelt and Rigsby at their heels.

What their sights fell upon was unexpected, to say the least.

Extremities sprawled at different angles, a body laid on the worn wood of the floor near the blanket-less cot. The figure's hand loosely clasped the neck of a bottom-shattered beer bottle, glass littering the wooden planks and reflecting light like minuscule pieces of quartzite. Some remnants of the bottle glittered on the dark vest of Catalina blue, which was paired with a business jacket of a lighter shade, and underneath a thinly striped cream shirt. The polished shoes of the man were scuffed on the edges, his pants ruffled and twisted on his legs.

Blond, curly locks framed the man's face, which looked peaceful, with his eyes closed fast and the lack of emotion written on it. His chest didn't appear to be moving.

In less than a heartbeat, Agent Lisbon rushed to the side of the man, bending down on her knees to asses him.

Van Pelt gave a gasp, a delicate hand flying to her mouth, the other lowering her previously readied pistol. Rigsby stood with his mouth slightly agape, shocked at the situation, but present enough in mind to put a reassuring hand on Van Pelt's shoulder.

Looking over Lisbon to see the body of the CBI consultant, Van Pelt asked fearfully, "Is he alright?"

Seconds passed as Lisbon's shaking fingers fiddled around the man's neck for a pulse, her dark bangs guarding her glassy eyes.

"He's got a pulse," Lisbon said before sighing in relief, clutching her gold cross necklace as if it were a lifeline. "But just barely. Rigsby, call the paramedics now," she ordered with masked emotion, turning to face Cho, who was busying himself at the table a short distance from the bed.

"Have you got anything Cho?"

Cho shook his head, seemingly as a responsive no, but then he spoke.

"There's an empty bottle of a prescribed benzodiazepine, listed for the daily use of one pill, and received on May 22nd. He couldn't have finished this off in five days."

Cho's face, which was usually void of emotion, was now a mix of sorrow and anger. He took the prescription bottle and chucked it to the other side of the room, the anger taking over as it was the stronger emotion of the two.

Van Pelt kneeled beside Lisbon whilst Rigsby talked hastily into his cell phone, his left hand's fingers running through his hair in a sign of distress.

"I should've seen this coming," Teresa berated herself, her gaze never leaving Jane, "Jane's been more depressed than usual, and he's never done anything more for his insomnia other than drinking decaf tea..."

Lisbon had had been curious when the consultant announced that he had a doctor's visit just five days previously, because Jane hadn't bothered to cure his insomnia for nine years. She never acted upon her curiosity, and now Teresa felt that she was to blame for not noticing this odd sign.

"None of us expected this, boss." Grace was careful not to look at Jane's form. "You shouldn't blame yourself."

Whispers were heard under Lisbon's breath as she prayed for the life of her coworker. Rigsby and Cho looked on as Van Pelt and Lisbon crouched near Jane, who's stillness was unnerving and a cold stab to the heart of his fellow agents.

"Let him live," Teresa begged breathily, tears spilling without permission, as sirens were heard down in the city streets below.

XxX

A/N:

This is my first fanfiction for The Mentalist, which is a fandom I've recently become a part of. If you like this story so far, feel free to review. Any constructive criticism is appreciated.

There will soon be more to come, and the chapters will ( most likely ) be longer. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Bleeding Heart**

 _Reason and Newton, they are quite two things_

 _For so the Swallow and the Sparrow sings_.

Excerpt from _You Don't Believe- William Blake_

"What happened?"

Patrick Jane was hefted onto a gurney, one hand flopping off the side before a paramedic readjusted his position.

"He OD'd on sleeping pills, we-"

"Is he intoxicated?"

"Yes."

Lisbon pressed the cross hard against her palm, her heart racing as she prospected the effects of mixing alcohol and drugs.

The paramedic placidly checked Patrick's pulse with practiced urgency, nodding his head as if his thoughts were confirmed.

"OD and intoxication, critical condition, slow heartbeat," the man remarked, addressing his unit.

Almost as quickly as the paramedic team had entered, they were out, the CBI agents trailing behind them as Jane was wheeled to the elevator, down to the lowest floor, and packed into the cluttered ambulance.

Lisbon's stomach was churning with the sickness of guilt, the organ beginning to reject it's contents. The woman had a cold stone exterior, but at times such as this, it melted away to reveal the frightened interior that was shielded. All Teresa knew now was that she was furious with Jane, angered that he could be so selfish enough to leave his friends, no, his _family_ behind, that he refused her help the days before this awful occurrence. But every occasion in which Lisbon extended her services, Jane turned her down.

Mind returning from her thoughts, Teresa made the decision of going with Jane on the ambulance. She couldn't depart with him, or else he might depart from her for a lifetime.

The doors were slammed shut, and the van was set in motion. An assortment of wires were attached to Jane, an IV and a heart monitor included, and a breath mask was placed over his mouth and nose. The ambulance jerked and screeched, sirens blaring, and Lisbon fought to remain upright.

The beeps on the monitor began to be distanced, taking more time in-between. The head paramedic was shouting orders to the others as they scrambled to steady Jane's heartbeat.

Unbidden hot tears were swept angrily away, despair taking control of her thoughts. _He's not going to make it..._

 _Dammit Jane!_ She internally yelled, her fists balling as her eyes followed the movements of the paramedics.

Lisbon peered at the remnants of the broken man who had whittled away during the years she had known him; revenge isn't good for the soul. It is a drive for people, yes, but the wider range of the race and the more exhilarating the chase, the less of you there is. The heart is set on one motion; until the conquest is concluded, the soul is polluted with hate. Hate driven revenge. It kills you.

It was killing Patrick Jane. A slow kill, many years of the process, but the job was done.

No. It wasn't.

"If you can't fight for yourself Patrick, then I'll fight for you," Lisbon stated to herself, a jolt of pain hitting her, causing realization to strike. The years spent with this man had been some of the best; Patrick Jane had become a part of Teresa Lisbon. If Jane died, a piece of Lisbon would die with him. She couldn't let a piece of her heart return to dust.

Teresa stared at the wired and masked man who's soul was drifting in front of her, at the wrinkles on the edges of his eyes that should've been from laughter, but instead were from the forced aging as a result of a dark past. She looked to his hands, calloused and strong, but now colder, Lisbon found, as she laced her fingers with his.

All that Teresa could do was wait and hope.

 **Seven Days Previous**

Patrick Jane gazed blankly at the ceiling, the small mattress he lay on top of providing little support or comfort. The room in which he resided was void of belongings, with the only remarkable note being the red smiley face painted on the wall above the consultant.

The man was in a state of contemplation, hands folded neatly over his stomach, eyes ever wide and jubilant despite the late hour of the night. His insomnia was getting worse, it seemed; Jane had not received a good night's rest for the past two weeks. With each closing of the eyelid came a flashback of his bloodied wife and daughter, lying soulless and lifeless before him. If Jane thought hard enough, the stench of iron would vaguely be sensed by his nostrils.

A shiver ran down his back, and Patrick found himself longing to take part in some action that would distract himself from his past.

But he wanted to remember.

Patrick Jane wanted to etch every detail of his family's murder into his mind, revolving the memories over and over, in a way that gave him fire and fight. It was in this way that he remained locked in the horror that was his past, and which drove Patrick to seek the revenge so lustfully dreamt of.

Tonight was somehow different, however.

As the memories flooded his being, it was as if it was draining Jane, not rallying him. The darkness was filtering through the memories, eating him alive, causing a burning sensation in his chest.

Had the guilt become too much to carry?

Was his drive simply not there?

It wasn't like he no longer cared to kill Red John; more than anything, Jane wanted to shoot the bastard until the satisfaction reached him.

But, wouldn't it be so much easier to just sleep his troubles away?

Obviously, that was not an option for Jane; it was these thoughts that prevented him from rest. There were always benzodiazepines which would help, although Jane wasn't the biggest fan of venturing to the doctor's.

Jane traced the smiley face with his mind; he could see the dark figure of Red John standing there, mocking him, as he slowly painted the mixed bloods of Angela and Charlotte on the wall, permanently staining. The blood dripped, oozing down, as it had from his little girl's sliced neck.

Patrick clenched his eyelids closed, covering them with his hands, as if to shield himself from the memory.

He just wanted his suffering to end. Patrick Jane didn't want to live in a world such as the one in which he did; he was alone, with solely revenge keeping his heart beating. There wasn't a person who truly knew him, who could understand his pain, or why he did such things.

Only one person came close, and that, of course, was Teresa.

Admittedly, she was another factor that made him remain, although he couldn't find it in himself to say it aloud. The woman was a good friend of his, like family, but lately... There was just something more.

Was this why Jane was losing sleep? Guilt concerning something of a different matter?

Whatever feelings were there, they truly startled Jane, and he couldn't shake them off.

Patrick was devoted to Angela, that was certain. He couldn't move past her, but if he ever were to, it would be Lisbon that could alter his path.

And he knew it.

Weary shadows flared on the walls as Patrick sat up, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. He began to dial when he realized it was three o'clock in the morning- when did that happen?

He stared for a few minutes at the screen, trying to decide his next course of action. In the end, Jane figured that she needed her rest more than he needed to chat.

Patrick flung his phone to the side and, drunk with exhaustion, rose, descended the steps, and entered the kitchen. Besides the pristinely-stated tricycle near the doorway, the other item left here were his china, along with some tea packets.

Jane brewed himself a cup and let the tea bag soak in the boiled water, sipping it once it had the right potency, gazing out the glass walls until the stars' shine began to damper as a result of the oncoming morn.

His eyes drooped from lack of sleep, and he slumped against a wooden frame, his body heavy from an assortment of varying reasons.

What one would witness here is a man losing hope, the spark in his soul disintegrating after a long time of careful maintenance. Sometimes, there isn't a big push that sends someone over the edge. Sometimes, it's just that they are done. They've carried on too long to have any fight left in them. Hope is a fleeting thing, rather than love; true love prevails and is constant, but hope will die within a few feeble seconds. A person can die within a few feeble seconds. But love? It lives on after death. It is what conquered the grave.

Patrick Jane's soul was dimming as the starlight did, one word lingering in his conscious: rest.

XxX

A/N: I wanted to, in this fic, illustrate that there are times in which what breaks might not be a ( current ) tragic or startling event, but rather the final stages of decomposition, it that makes sense. I sincerely hope that you are enjoying this; if you spot any spelling errors, let me know.

Special Thank You!

Thanks you so much to those who reviewed and welcomed me to the fandom; I rarely get much response! So thank you to **LouiseKurylo, nic73, MissDonnie, thorntons, Rosepeony, KrrdmN, Helloboys25, and Brooklyn79!** I appreciate it very much. :)

Once again, any constructive criticism is appreciated. What are your thoughts on the writing style? Anything you'd like to see different? Let me know if there's anything.

Extra:

The poems at the beginning of each chapter are for the purpose of thought; in what way these excerpts relate to the story is for you to decide and hopefully enjoy. They are by William Blake, who is the author of The Tiger ( tiger, tiger, burning bright, in the forest of the night... ), so I thought that would be an interesting little cookie.

Another thing is that the last sentence of the first half of the chapter contains the last word of and from the Count of Monte Cristo ( a great read ), so if you caught that, kudos to you. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Scarlet Letter**

 _"A truth that's told with bad intent_

 _Beats all the lies you can invent."_

 _William Blake- Auguries of Innocence_

 **Six Days Previous**

The scent of freshly-made coffee, sterilized floors, and crisp paper welcomed Patrick to the CBI unit's station as the elevator doors glided apart for him to pass through. His pace was reluctant as he rounded the corner of the bullpen, the recent thoughts passing through his mind subconsciously adding a weight to his shoulders.

The team gave Jane little notice as he entered and rested himself on the sagging leather couch, Rigsby and Cho being caught up in some petty argument as Van Pelt sat clacking on her keyboard, ignoring them.

"I could easily take down ten at a time," said Rigsby, who was leaning back in his chair, his demeanor reeking of his masculine-confidence.

"Based on what I've seen of your marksmanship, that's very questionable," Cho grunted, who was glued to his computer, focused on his research rather than Wayne's frivolous commentary.

"Not with a gun," Rigsby said, unfazed by the insult, "with my own strength!"

Rigsby flexed his non-prominent muscles, tightening his arm and loosening it repetitively, a smirk dominating his features.

Cho took this moment to swivel around and give Rigsby a hardened glare, his jaw tightening at the absurdity of Wayne's words.

Van Pelt sighed, clicking off of a tab, being finished with one of her ever-piling duties.

"Morning, Jane," she greeted, tilting her head to see Patrick snuggled on the couch with his hands nestled between his legs, which were pulled to his chest in an almost fetal position. It was as if he were a scolded basset hound with it's tail tucked, his droopy eyes and dark bags adding to the canine image.

Patrick hummed an answer, adjusting into the nook of the couch.

Grace's brows drew together, and she frowned at his lack of response. Everyone was aware that Jane had sleeping problems; since the night of his family's murder, he had been besieged with restive sleep. "Tough night?" She questioned, using her hand to gently sweep her fiery hair to the side, then moving her seat in the direction of the drowsy consultant.

"You could say that," Patrick mumbled, eye-lids remaining shut.

He knew that sleep wasn't an option, but dozing could possibly be. His lashes blinked open, and he viewed the world in a haze; sight was altered, and noise was heightened. Jane listened to the intensified bickering of Rigsby and Cho, corded phones ringing in multiple directions, communication between agents, the scuffing of graphite on paper, the clicking of keyboards, and soon, it began to muffle, until clomping of heels stirred him from his dazed state.

Lisbon had arrived, clutching her routine morning-coffee, bangs parted and hair curled in thick ringlets. The dark suit and navy button-up blouse she wore extenuated her features, chiseling the bones on her cheeks and darkening the brown-copper shadow she had artfully brushed onto her lids hours earlier.

From the haste in her steps, the crew knew she was bringing news.

"We've got one," Teresa said, leaning partly on her right foot as she stood near Jane and his established couch.

"A stabbing on Kurtstone Avenue, middle aged John Doe, left in the dumpster of an apartment building. Rigsby and Cho, I'd like the two of you to bring in and question the owner of the apartment and the woman responsible for finding the man, Elizabeth Lane. Jane and I will inspect the body, see what we can determine. Van Pelt, stay here and wait for any information we might find on the body for you to ID him with," she ordered, motioning with her hands as she delineated tasks.

A unified "yes boss" was spoken, Van Pelt acting a little down hearted since she would not yet be in on any action as she turned once more to the screen.

Cho and Rigsby stood, shrugging into their tailored jackets, then left quickly, excited to begin investigating the new case.

Lisbon was about to follow suit when she noticed that Jane had yet to move.

"Jane, are you coming?" Teresa inquired with a heated tone in a higher-pitched voice, agitated that Patrick had no sense of urgency and that he would rather catch up on sleep than solve a murder. She did, however, see that there were monstrous bags under his eyes, which in fact had been brewing from lack of rest for some time.

Her expression softened, and she wondered to herself if his insomnia had become worse. "Jane?"

As if it took a great deal of effort, Patrick rose to a sitting position, propping himself with his arms. He appeared half-asleep, eyes sunken and barely opened, squinting against the harsh light of the sun filtering through the blinds and the expensive bulbs of the department building.

His hair was tousled, some locks parting in the wrong direction; Jane's lips pressed together in a vague frown.

"I think you and the team can handle this one."

Jane began to remove his jacket, eyes avoiding Lisbon's, who was the face of confusion.

"It'd be good practice for you, anyways."

Patrick laid back down, covering his torso with his make-shift blanket.

"Practice for what?" Teresa asked, brows raised and mouth opened faintly.

"Well, I close every case that comes to the CBI; I believe that the team should learn to function without me," Jane remarked, his arrogance flaring anger within Lisbon.

"Oh, so the CBI revolves around you?"

"Indeed it does."

Lisbon rolled her eyes, becoming frustrated with Jane's antics.

"It's your job to consult on these cases, Jane. You can't just pick and choose which ones you'd like to participate in."

Jane slowly released a breath of air, sealing his eyelids as he did so.

"Teresa, please. I can't right now."

Something in Jane's voice bled through, giving Lisbon an odd sense. Whatever it was, it made her feel - what was it - frightened?

Teresa paused, regaining her thoughts.

"Fine, Jane," she said exasperatedly. "This better not happen again."

With one last look at Patrick, Teresa turned and stalked off.

"It won't," Jane mumbled.

 **The Next Day**

Jane studied the other people in the waiting room of the doctor's office as he sat, patiently listening for his name to be called. Patrick was often weary of these experiences because of a past in which he was drugged heavily on medical supplies during the year of his mental breakdown. He didn't much trust prescribed drugs, and neither did he trust doctors; Jane had come across many criminal ones in his line of work.

But, Jane was pushing that aside for this one day, so that he may receive the medical help he desperately needed. Or wanted?

Of course, he needed rest, and wanted it; it was obvious that the only quick solution to meeting the satisfaction of his needs was to get the pills that could end those troubles.

Another factor was at play, one that hid in the back of his mind: a simple thought, but a thought that was corrupting. It hadn't fully arose to his consciousness yet, although some of his actions were dictated by the thought. It disguised itself as rest for the weary, an evil masquerading as a mercy. Somewhere inside, Jane knew that he shouldn't follow this path.

But he couldn't help himself.

His jacket pocket began to vibrate. Jane reached in the jacket and retrieved his cell phone, flipping it open and pressing it to his ear without bothering to see who his caller was. He already knew.

"Hello Lisbon," Patrick said, scooting further back into the plush burgundy chairs of the cream-tiled office, the smell of disinfectant overwhelming his senses.

"Jane, when are you going to help on this case? We have literally no suspects; the man's name is Deacon Kilmer, a single construction worker who lives downtown, quite some distance from the crime scene. We've assumed the type of knife used as the murder weapon, and from what we can tell, it's not a crime of passion. We thought it might've been a mugging gone wrong, but there's a mysterious-"

"Slow down Teresa," said Jane, his brain rattling from the rambling of his co-worker. "I'm not going to work this case, and either way, I'm busy with an appointment right now."

"Really?" Lisbon asked, snarky-ness and skepticism evident in her voice, with hint of amusement thrown in, "What appointment?"

"At the doctor's," Jane replied, crossing his left leg over his right and resting the unoccupied hand on the wooden arm-rests of the chair.

On the other end of the phone, a light scoff was heard.

"You, at the clinic? That insomnia must be getting very bad for you to resort to this," Teresa joked, knowing good and well of Patrick's hatred for doctor visits.

"Clearly."

Jane's voice was slightly dead-panned; he coincidentally yawned the moment after.

"Look, Jane, I don't like to admit it, but we really need you here."

Patrick grimaced at her words, which cut through him in a strange manner, his heart warmed, but left with an aftertaste of guilt.

The door leading into the corridor filled with various rooms in which the doctors inspected their patients swung open, revealing a balding man in his early fifties who was dressed in the doctors' drab, a clipboard in hand.

"Patrick Jane?" The man inquired, eyes searching the sea of people in the rows of chairs before him.

"Uh, here," Jane called, signaling to the doctor with his hand.

"I gotta call you back, Lisbon," Jane stated into the lower half of the phone, having moved it away from his ear.

"Wait, Ja-"

 _Beep_

Jane snapped the cell phone closed, returning it to it's designated pocket, then made his way over to Dr. Whittaker, as it was specified on the name tag.

Jane reminded himself once again to ask about the dangers of mis-dosage.

 **Current Day**

They were flying down endless halls, a maze that Lisbon wished she could cheat through by backtracking her footsteps, but time was not a defined entity she could reverse, no matter how much she longed to.

Everything had morphed into a blur; her eyesight had locked onto Jane and it hadn't let go.

The paramedics slid the gurney into an unoccupied room, urgently transferring Patrick onto the supportive bed used in surgeries, or situations such as what was currently taking place.

His heartbeat hadn't stabilized; in fact, nothing about him was stable. The grim reaper was staring into Jane's soul, contemplating whether or not it should steal it as it's prize.

Lisbon was beyond the point of sense, and fought against the arms pressuring her out of the way.

Jane's body started to shake out of control, his back arching painfully, then pounding back onto the bed, arms flailing stiffly. The seizures had begun, a consequence of the mixed sleeping pills and alcohol in the body.

The doctors and paramedics swarmed around Patrick, which to Teresa looked to be a haze of color moving faster than her mind could process.

Her insides were screaming, but her agape mouth never made a sound; Lisbon's face was frozen in shock, her heart pumping so loudly that all other sound was blocked out.

Except for the beeping of the monitor.

Whereas minutes earlier it had been slow, it was now racing at an extreme rate, an effect of the convulsions; Lisbon wasn't sure what was worse.

Not long after it had first commenced, the convulsions halted, and Jane fell flat; the stress on the heart from switching between extremes was immense, and somewhere inside, Lisbon knew it would give out on him.

XxX

A/N:

My apologies for apologies for the time it took to update!

Hopefully you liked this chapter; I know that there wasn't much of the current in-mortal-peril-Jane, but at least there's some insight to the previous days. The next two chapters will have more interesting plots hopefully, and go into more depth, if it works right.

I might continue this story if you all would like me to, but in a sequel-type way; I believe that I could somehow elongate the plot ( without damaging it ), but I'd like your thoughts before I begin to plan anything.

Once again, is there anything you'd like to see different? I'd love to know!

 **Special Thank You!**

Thank you again to all of those who reviewed the previous chapter and this one also; I tried to put down everyone's name, but the tabs crashed since I was logged onto two tabs on the site so I could see the names... So thank you!

Thank you also to **peanutbuttercookie** and **damnblondecurls** who were new reviewers this past chapter!

Lastly, thank you to those who have followed and favorited. All of this feedback and encouragement makes my day!

I absolutely love coming back on after I post and wake up in the morning to be greeted with so much response; I rarely get this much feedback, I really appreciate it you guys!

XxX Kay


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Raining Crimson**

 _"Cruelty has a human heart_

 _And Jealousy a human face_

 _Terror the human form divine,_

 _And Secrecy the human dress."_

 _William Blake- A Divine Image_

 **Four Days Previous**

Green tea fumes evaporated and danced in captivating waves before Jane as they swirled ever higher, fading daylight capturing the mist and adding a luminous radiance.

Patrick's forefinger and thumb rapped round the dainty handle of his favored cerulean cup, the platter resting beneath it on the table.

Jane himself was staring through the grimy windows at the sunset, infatuated at the gradient colors hindering the diminishing blue of the sky.

The late evening beckoned Jane to rest; when the stars broke through the atmosphere and the tea had receded to a puddle at the bottom of his cup, Patrick decided that it was time.

Snatching his prescription pills from the corner of the table, Jane rose and journeyed to his cot, removing the lid of the pill bottle as he did so.

The night before included the most refreshing sleep Jane had received in many years, but that didn't keep him from holing up in his room and sitting tiredly for the majority of the day.

While the CBI unit was investigating floors below, Patrick was contemplating from a window seat, viewing the world in a way that none would deem healthy.

His mind raced drunkenly between thoughts, most being categorized into two areas: his family, and his future.

The two tied together intricately, until the path before him, once undecided, was now certain.

Jane was mortal, and would one day become feeble and ancient, then dying and deteriorating, ground to dust beneath the dirt, with the triumphs in his life only acting as a scratch on the surface compared to the marks made by others in the world.

Being unremembered wasn't saddening, but instead was a prompt. If the actions bore no fruit of the tree, then why not slash the branch?

If dying was the inevitable option, then why continue lingering in such an existence, melancholy and dead inside, revenge as the adrenaline pumping in the veins?

Angela and Charlotte were gone, dust in the wind, lost in the void of nothingness that resulted after death.

Jane wanted to follow.

If it meant that this pain being carried every aching day would vanish, it didn't matter knowing that it was a part of the soul that would only leave if everything else vanished too.

These dark thoughts welled pestilently, dripping from his mind into his soul, gathering until the pool of blackness swallowed him.

The dark shadowed ominously in his eyes as he fingered the countless powdery pills in his hand.

Jane sat on the bed, turning the bottle to once again check the dosage. _One pill a_ _night_.

The doctor said that taking more than four at a time would land anyone in some trouble, so how would ten do?

Jane counted the pills; there were a total of twenty nine, enough to last him a month.

But what about an eternity?

Never again would he wake if he indulged on his longings, his selfish need for his pain to end. What would happen to those left behind if he ventured to the point of no return?

Jane's hands began to shake, and his breath quickened in fright; his senses were returning to him, and in an instant, Jane stood from his cot, flung the pills to the floor, dropping the bottle along with them.

Patrick gasped, his body quavering, and he inhaled deep breaths of air to keep from hyperventilating.

The power he had over himself was on autopilot as something else within him controlled, a paradox that Jane couldn't comprehend.

 _Lisbon. He needed to get to Lisbon_.

Jane stumbled as he trampled down the stairs, gripping the railings so that he wouldn't fall completely, then coming to the correct floor speedily walked to the interrogation rooms, huffing and puffing as he went.

Through the window he saw Teresa interviewing a man who, obvious by his alarmingly yellow hard hat and gruff, strong appearance was a construction employee.

Uncaring of Lisbon's situation, Jane opened the door, peering through.

"Mr. Stanford, what was your relation to the-"

"Lisbon," he demanded.

Teresa turned, and on sight of Jane quickly became tense.

"Jane, I'm busy," Lisbon stated, gesturing towards the interrogated man.

"You should take a break; I need to speak with you. He didn't do it anyway." Jane replied matter-of-factly, coming more into view.

"Who says? Look- can't this wait?" Lisbon asked, trying to process Jane's request and his remark that the suspect in fact wasn't guilty of Kilmer's murder.

Jane shook his head, letting his expression convey the urgency with his serious, forlorn face.

Teresa recognized the sign. The expression Jane bore now was one that Lisbon knew well; it was the exact face of the man she had first met when Jane stepped into the office years ago, in want of the Red John files. He had been so broken and lost, a man buried alive in a his misery.

That side of him became craftily hidden as time aged them, which coincided with the continual need to conceal the ever-growing anger and lust within him, the eggshell-thin covering that, when cracked, exposed the miserable portion.

The question was, why had he cracked now?

Lisbon returned her focus to Marcus Stanford, her former head suspect as of that day.

"My apologies, Mr. Stanford. I'll have one of my coworkers continue the process. Van Pelt?" Lisbon looked to the glass and called.

Moments later, Van Pelt switched places with Lisbon, and Teresa exited the interrogation room, following as Jane led her to his leather couch.

Arriving there, Jane plopped himself down, his expression a transparent window for Teresa to see through as she observed him, waiting for him to speak.

Jane ran his hands through his thick hair, elbows on his knees, and Lisbon watched him expectedly, leaning partly on her right leg.

An internal war was waging within Jane; he needed to tell Lisbon the truth.

But the truth was his.

"Jane?" Teresa spoke softly, edging nearer to him. When he continued his obvious fretting and made no response, Lisbon sat down on the couch beside him, her honest-eyes conveying her worry.

If Jane was to tell her about this, then he'd immediately be kept monitored, under surveillance; anyways, he wasn't particularly sure of his own mind yet.

He could handle this, and it was smarter to seclude himself rather than expose this secret that could once again land him in a psychiatric facility.

Either way... Patrick wanted to keep that power. Or, instead, he wanted to allow the force inside of him to keep it's position of control.

Jane was a breathing oxymoron; what was known to be wrong felt right, and although the thought of ending his own life frightened him, he wanted that option open.

The truth was _his_.

"I... I'm sorry, Lisbon, for pulling you out of there, I just..."

Jane heaved a sigh of frustration. What was he to say that could cover this mistake?

An idea sprung to mind, one that seemed much nicer in comparison to his former intentions; this way, if there was an end, he'd have an evening to spend with her.

That is, if she would except.

"Would you like to have dinner tomorrow night?"

Lisbon flinched her head back in an unusual motion, her eyebrows drawn together, but a smile flitted across her features.

"You mean, as a date?" She inquired skeptically, believing this worried-Jane to be an act, sure that he was playing some game.

"If that's how you'd like to think of it, then sure, Lisbon."

Patrick grinned, and Teresa swatted his shoulder. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Lisbon spoke.

"I won't be able to tomorrow; we'll be working another lead a few hours from the city, but I could probably find time Thursday."

"Thursday it is, then," Patrick confirmed, smiling his usual grin that seemed so innocently joyous, but sparsely covered his pain.

The two rose from their seats, and parted ways: Teresa, with an indescribable happiness she refused to let fester smothered within herself; Jane, with an admitted poison settling in his veins.

Upon entrance of his room, Jane began scavenging for the scattered sleeping pills, until he counted twenty nine in all.

Then, he popped one in his mouth, letting his thoughts drift away into the oblivion he desperately craved.

 **Three Days Previous**

The weather always had a way with timing. Specifically, the rain.

Wherever Jane was, the rain followed, biding its time until important events in his life came along.

The day he met Angela, it had rained.

Jane could picture it clearly in his mind; the ruffled-sky blue blouse she wore that matched her eyes, her silky hair flowing over her shoulder, the gracefulness about her. After some effort to ask her out for coffee, Angela obliged. He wasn't used to really coaxing someone into spending an evening with him.

Before they had entered the café, rain began to pour, drenching the streets as well as the two when they made a break for the entrance. Jane was rather upset about it, but Angela only laughed.

"I love the rain," she commented, taking quick breaths as Jane pulled the door open for Angela to pass. It was a swift remark, but Jane remembered it for years after; Angela's voice had been so exuberant, full of joy and life when she said it, with a big smile plastered on her face. An authentic one. It was such a smile that revealed her interior self, the youthful, happy-self.

And Jane fell in love with it.

...

It had rained the night of Charlotte Anne's birth.

Patrick held his newborn child in his arms, cradling the head blessed with soft, blonde curls, and stared into eyes that had copied his own as thunder churned in the dusky night.

That was the moment when Jane realized that this little miracle was his best friend's and his own creation, this infant beauty, his magnificent baby girl. He fell in love instantly as he rocked Charlotte, who cooed contently in the safe embrace of her father.

...

It rained the day of his father's death.

The voice on the other end of the phone was hard to discern as the rain drops fell around Patrick, who was hurrying into his car; Jane was heading to a studio to be televised.

Slamming the door shut, he asked the caller to, again, repeat their words, once he'd revved the engine.

The anger he'd carried for many years against his father as he was told euphemisms and apologies for his loss melted away, and despite his current obligations, Jane began to weep, rain sluggishly cascading down the car windows.

...

It rained the morning after Angela and Charlotte were murdered.

There were police crowded in his home, invading the space where he had sought security, but now only would be a house in a ghost town of memories.

Patrick stood before the glass walls, staring out at the gloomy rain pounding the ground, enforcing a somehow stained and unclean feeling on the earth; it was as if, no matter how hard it tried to rid itself of it, the bloody marks of the world could never be cleansed.

There were officers badgering him, a dark headed woman almost pleading for a statement, but Jane wouldn't budge.

Jane couldn't move, nor could he comprehend anything; he'd been in shock for hours, the blanket over his shoulders doing nothing for his condition.

Sometime later he found himself sitting, no longer facing the windows, but he could still see the rain: rain, a bloody crimson, running down the wrist from the coated palm of the hand raised before him. His hand.

Their blood.

...

It was raining today.

Jane kneeled before the gravestones of his wife and daughter, indifferent to the rain deterring his vision and soaking him, cold to the bone.

The symbolism of the rain confronted his thoughts; when it rained, there was the portrayal of cleansing pasts, the foreshadowing of change.

What Jane desired was freedom from the past, and to achieve his aspiration, Patrick recognized that he must destroy the person responsible in return of the demolishing of his prior life.

Could Jane be mistaken, with his speculations false?

Jane's previous response was to run from the past and chase revenge, never ceasing for a moment to entertain the possibility that he could alter the preceding life in another manner. The reason was that, in Patrick's heart, he knew he was able to. But, revenge was the more satisfying route to proceed on.

Jane was exhausted of escaping, running from everyone he'd loved, from everything; it was now articulately shown that the sole path which would lead him to freedom would be to accept the past.

Patrick needed to accept that they were gone, and that he wasn't able to do anything about it.

To accept would be to endure the ultimate diminishing of his soul, to slip into the dark hole Jane once crawled out of, where the sun's light was blocked from view, and the pain of eternal darkness suffocated him.

And how could Patrick stand it? How would he live again in hell's confined walls, the walls of his anguished mind?

The answer was simple: Jane wouldn't.

...

Before Jane departed, he placed a bouquet of yellow roses between Angela and Charlotte, allowing the rain to sodden the vibrancy of Charlotte's favored flowers.

He never returned.

XxX

Sorry that I haven't included any current situation parts in this chapter... I had planned to get through four of the days, but that didn't happen. So, two chapters are yet to come.

I fashioned the second half with the song When It Rains by Paramore in mind, in honor of my late cousin who I'm reminded of whenever I listen to it. In fact, the song works for this whole fic.

 **Special Thank You!**

Thank you to all who have reviewed, followed, and favorited! You guys are what keeps me going; I'd never have the confidence to post this without you all. :)

Let me know what you thought of this chapter: whether it was good or not, if something was amiss in the plot line. I created a lot of the second half since there wasn't much to go on in the area of Jane's past with his wife and daughter.

The next chapter is named Red Wine, and is going to include the dinner with Jane and Lisbon, and the night of Jane's overdose. There, you'll see how Teresa knew he was in trouble. Of course, we'll also see if Jane pulls through or not- which I'm pretty sure you know the answer to. :)

Thank you for reading and giving me great feedback; if there's anything you'd like to see different or have a question about, let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Red Wine**

" _The human dress is forged in iron,_

 _The human form a fiery forge._

 _The human face a furnace sealed,_

 _The human heart it's hungry gorge."_

 _William Blake- A Divine Image_

 **Two Days Previous**

The rays of the evening reflected brilliantly on the wine glasses, adding a sparkling effect to the already dazzling dinner place. The outdoor-air was filled with the aroma of various cheeses and sauces that brought together magnificent pasta dishes, and enticed the anticipating customers at their tables, waiting for their orders to arrive.

Jane and Lisbon were seated under the dangling lights that added an ambiance of luxury to the gourmet Italian restaurant, the checkered tabletop before them empty so far, except for the two glasses of red wine resting near their fingertips, and a lovely rose centerpiece. The evening began pleasantly as the pair placed their orders with a waiter that Jane was well acquainted with, having been to the diner multiple times previously. Then, the two started to chat. For Jane, it was more than a primeval dinner date.

He believed it to be his last moments with Lisbon.

Whenever this thought intruded, he mechanically grasped the slender wine glass and gulped down the remnants, constantly referring back to the waiter for another refill. His decision was final, and Jane wouldn't be deterred by her. Not that Teresa had any inkling of the war she was battling with her drunken co-worker.

In his memory he captured everything about Teresa; the movement of her lips to form each word, her fleeting anger at his irksome remarks, the ebony locks of hair framing her beautifully angular face, the green of her honest eyes that reminded him of the sea after a storm. She was beautiful, hair down and clothed in a navy gown, and he felt a bitter-sweetness akin to the taste from the wine.

Jane was caught up in a future that he no longer believed in, stuck in a dream from which he'd never wake. As the time inched by, and the light of the sky wavered, he wondered if he really could ever go through with his plans.

But Jane couldn't take the risk of living.

...

"How has the Kilmer case been coming along?" Jane inquired, draining the contents of his third glass of red wine. Teresa had yet to touch hers, speculating that she would have to sacrifice her enjoyment of fine wine in order to get them home safely, judging by Jane's current sobriety.

"We have another suspect," Teresa replied, indulging on a bite of her manicotti.

"Elizabeth Lane?" Patrick asked, pausing for a moment from his next bite of spaghetti as he studied Lisbon's face.

The movement of her jaw as she ate the manicotti slowed, but Lisbon calmly looked to Jane and stated, "No," with a mocking undercurrent.

"So it is," Jane replied, grabbing his napkin and dabbing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were glazed, like the humidity collecting on their glasses.

"How'd you know?" Teresa inquired in defeat, taking a swig of her wine.

Jane's grin was hollow. "It was a hunch until you confirmed it for me."

Teresa scoffed in amused skepticism, leaning back into her chair. "You haven't even met the woman. How could you-no, wait, don't tell me," Lisbon joked sarcastically, "You're actually psychic, and have been hiding it for all this time."

"There's no such thing as psychics, Lisbon." Jane remarked. His eyes softened and he grimaced; he looked down to his wedding ring, which had shrunken onto his finger.

Lisbon immediately felt the swift change of atmosphere, the cheeky smile playing on her lips dropping immediately. Jane became colder, with calculated and stern thoughts behind his gaze that denied the fact that he was very much drunk.

Wrong words.

She remained still, insides squirming uncomfortably, as their chatter paused. It was evident that Jane wasn't himself, or, rather, his removed self, since usually he wouldn't be so quick to take offense.

Jane found Lisbon's eyes once more.

"Teresa, there's something I've been needing to tell you."

Lisbon leaked her slight shock, a tension straightening her ever proud posture.

Patrick yearned to reach out to her, and in that second, he felt that she could save him. Saint Teresa could be the savior he needed.

But Patrick wouldn't allow himself to be saved. If he told her the truth about how he felt, there would be no return, no relief.

Inside he was aware that his motives were purely selfish, that Lisbon was waiting to hear what she'd known all along, but to confirm it would prove a whole other outcome.

Patrick loved her. And he couldn't tell her that.

Jane smiled bitterly, ghostly and dry, the sunflower curls the only bright thing left about his appearance.

Why did he choose this?

Patrick drew in a breath. "Never mind. Sorry. So, back to Lane..."

...

The detective and consultant were streaming down the California highway in Patrick's car, the night closing in on the sinuous roads as the sun descended further behind the horizon.

Their dinner had fallen short of Lisbon's low expectations; Jane was not his usual good company, drowning in red wine at mentions of anything but small talk. With plates empty, they'd awkwardly agreed to return to their dwellings, Teresa coaxingly receiving Jane's car keys, as he was in no state to drive.

Now, Jane was searching the scenery, figure positioned towards the widow as his head laid on the head rest.

Bitter silence, once comfortable, was all to be recognized other than the hum of the motor. There was an uneasy feeling about the whole situation, and Lisbon was tempted to reiterate her concern.

She drew in a breath to speak, glancing at Patrick wearily, but he suddenly, yet softly, spoke.

"Would you stop here?"

"What, here? Now?" She inquired, peering out at the deepening dark to see the faint outline of the ocean, grass poking above the view.

"I'd like to see the beach," he stated plainly without sparing her a glance, his focus locked outside of his window.

Hesitant and confused, Lisbon pulled onto the shoulder they were nearing, easing into the parking space. Once the car stilled, Patrick presently left the Citreon and proceeded to leave down the walkway.

It was a moment before Lisbon was at his side, her heels doing little to slow down her pace.

For a moment, they solely stood, eyeing the shoreline and the caressing glow of the receding sun that hugged the grey ocean with a redeeming yellow. The wind whipped around their frames, kicking up the sand beneath their feet. Reeds withered behind them under the blows.

Teresa was tense as she waited with baited breath, an unusual fear climbing her skin and tightening in her chest. Jane was despondent and drunken, swaying and bending in the wind along with the reeds, hair ruffled. The horizon reflected in his dulled eyes as he seemed to marvel at the hypnotist waves.

Teresa startled when she felt his fingers slip into her grasp, and blinked down at the withered hand that intertwined with hers. He moved to face her, turning his back on the ocean.

"Lisbon," he spoke with a dry mouth that no amount of wine succeeded in dampening, "I want to apologize."

She smiled unsurely as he took hold of her unoccupied hand, gripping them with loose finger tips. Her dark hair danced in the turbulence around them, and her eyes burned in a deep forestry. Patrick smiled fondly at her.

"There's nothing to apologize for, Jane," Lisbon swallowed against the choked feeling enclosing her throat, "I had a good time tonight." She was at a loss, and studied him, looking for a trace of evidence of his intentions.

"That's not what I mean, although I'm sure I wasn't the best company this evening." Jane willed his heart to stop racing. "I want to apologize for the time it's taken for me to do this."

Suddenly, the wind picked up speed, and the waves were crashing over Teresa endlessly as she felt Patrick Jane lean in and kiss her. She didn't pull away, and felt no inclination to pursue that action, despite the fact that he was entirely and immensely drunk; it didn't matter that the alcohol was strong on his breath, or that it was this drunken state that brought upon the experience. She was wrapped and engulfed by him and the power of his vivid love, as shaken and fearful as a small fish in an incredible ocean.

But the fear of the unknown was outweighed by the excitement of the sea.

...

 **The Day Of**

When had the world become grey?

The stars no longer held their luster; the ocean's rhythmic crashing of waves as they folded upon themselves barely grasped the memory of the comforting lullaby. The ground was once sown with seeds of expectation, the sweat of relentless work watering the dry earth as the life struggled to peak over the soil. _Follow your dreams_ was the phrase burned into every young aspirer: a demand, and a guidance. The true dreams, however, were above the fathomable level of many. Idealism of something greater caused an overshadowing of what mattered most, of what the heart sincerely desired. _

An enigma of bottomless amber bottles was a swirling mass before Jane. Instinct raised one after another to his lips in purely mechanical movements to a point where events in his life were dissociative. Time escaped his senses, all of his remaining focus entrapped on snapping open the next bottle cap.

The shine of the moon failed to add a gleam in the perceptively dull gaze of his, as he was perched on a junk box of the CBI headquarters roof. Several glasses had rolled into different directions after they were drained of the maddening liquid and casted aside. The traffic below rushed in Jane's ears as a breeze ruffled his hair. He breathed in the night incoherently, tightly closing his eye lids as the cold air whispered around him, brushing against his bare ring finger.

Was that the ocean? The waves enveloped themselves as the light of the sunset receded. He was seated on the rocky shore, content in the darkness as the day was put to rest. He had traveled so far; there was little strength left within him, and yet, the sea called to him. It craved his appreciation, his enjoyment, his participation within the depths of the salty sea. In the same way, Jane was eager to splash into the soft waves, to lay under the comfortable dark.

He was sure he could feel the caress of the wind, the sand sticking to the pads of his weary feet. Here was his world, a world of darkness and terror, the unknown of the ocean at nighttime, wrapped in a sense of knowledge and certainty. Here, Jane existed in nothing but lies, to the eye of the beholder, seemingly convincing and trusting.

But someone else stood at the edge of the shore.

She was beauty and grace tied in one, an ethereal being that erupted joy into his heart. But her hair was as dark as the horizon, her eyes the sea in a storm.

She stood between the gratifying waves that licked playfully at his toes, and was as fast as stone into the earth. He could not move her, as she moved his heart.

Jane blinked. Now the world was still, a solid black proving reflective as he peered curiously at his solemn face. It was a moment before he recognized that he was seeing into the curved edges of a piano; the melody playing crept carefully to him. _Für_ _Elise_. He looked expectantly to his left, and examined the ivory steps of the polished baby grand as timid fingers embraced the keys. _E, D flat, E, B, D, C_ , _**G**_.

Jane chided Charlotte teasingly as the sour note was punched. She self-consciously began again, edging reluctantly onto the _A_ as she became swifter in her movements. Soon, Jane was entranced, a smile gently forming on the girl's lips as she continued the melody. In the unexpected and attention-grasping way of a sforzando, the minor key suddenly struck a chord in his heart, and de-crescendoing, the music faded, though her fingers never ceased to play. A cold red line traced her neck, then gradually dropped down onto the ivory, and made the keys grimy and sticky. Charlotte moved rhythmically on, until Jane could see solely red before him.

He gasped. Jane's conscience returned to the rooftop, his heart aching for the melody that had abruptly ended long ago.

His eyesight was affronted by a drink-induced haze, along with tears that he didn't realize were falling.

His balance swerved threateningly as he stood and returned inside to his room.

Jane didn't mean to hurt anyone. He hadn't meant to be so negligent and power hungry that he caused the deaths of his true dreams in life. Charlotte and Angela were proof of his destructive nature, his ugly, cowardly soul.

The pill bottle was in his hands. Jane lifted the lid, and poured out the pills into his palm.

After their deaths, Jane swore never again to love, nor to make friends that he'd only endanger.

One pill, swallowed with a sip of alcohol.

Now he was deep in the arms of love, in love with Saint Teresa, the woman who saved him from himself.

Two pills. Four. Repetitive swallowing.

Where was Saint Teresa now? This sinner's disappearance would be a blessing to her.

Six. Palm continuously refilled.

That's what he told himself. His ocean of lies was his diminishing comfort.

Ten. Was he falling down?

Teresa was better off without Patrick, for he was no saint. He was worthless compared to her, solely a man of guilt and shame.

Thirteen. Flying glass. Out of alcohol.

Patrick killed his wife and child, and now he would leave his love. But he deserved this death. She would come to understand, one day.

Nineteen. _Goodbye, Teresa_.

The ocean's waves cocooned him in darkness, the waves swirling in a grey of his dulling existence. Had he taken enough to sleep? Jane's throat was scratched and dry, and he longed to drink the water to wash away his pain. Jane breathed in the blackening waves, but he found no relief. Fire began battling the waves, and Jane yelled for his saint; he prayed to her, that he would not be kept from his peace as he was thrown about within the tumultuous waves of fire and water. His pulse lessened, and soon he was washed over with blissful ignorance.

 **Soon After**

"Get the lights, will you?" Teresa asked of Rigsby, who flipped the switch, the lights flickering momentarily before maintaining composure. Darkness crept in through the blinds as the rest of the population drifted in uneasy sleep. Headquarters had followed into the drowsy spell, unearthly quiet from a lack of inhabitants scuffing their shoes on the polished floors. Footsteps echoed carelessly as the team entered the interior of the windowed bull pen, resigning their daily duties and basking in the joy of their success.

Elizabeth Lane was apprehended hours earlier after the scheming implementation, and according to tradition, the team opted to celebrate with closed-case pizza before returning home.

"I'm proud of you guys," Teresa praised, shrugging off her black business jacket. She beamed with satisfaction that shone through her exhausted features as she stood near the back table. "You did very well tonight. We handled the situation with order and responsibility, and followed protocol every step of the way."

"It's almost strange, how open and shut everything was. I'm not used to being so straight-edge on cases," Grace remarked, chuckling slightly. She folded one leg upon the other as she settled into a chair by the sleek table, yawning quietly. The mascara Grace wore was smudged the edges of her lids, and dark circles exposed a purple like that of her blouse.

"Yeah, we make for a pretty great team when Jane isn't here to throw caution to the wind and put our jobs in jeopardy," Rigsby answered with an air of amusement and pride for the team's ability to function without the consultant. He scooted into the chair nearest to Van Pelt, one knee bobbing up and down, folded hands reaching onto the table with his hunched posture.

At the mentioning of Jane, Teresa blushed inwardly. She breathed in a sharp intake of air and forced the memories to the recesses of her mind. Because Teresa was unsure that Jane's memory would retain the events of the night before, she chose to forget everything before disappointment shook her.

"I'm just thankful it's closed. Snobby, murderous millionaire-wife cases are my least favorite, for sure. They always go for the dramatic," Cho cut in from beside Lisbon as he began dialing the number for Domino's with swift fingers. He paused, brow furrowing momentarily, before he continued with renewed memory.

"Where is Jane, anyway?" Rigsby inquired, mostly directed towards Lisbon as he shifted in his seat. "He hasn't been around lately."

"I don't know; last night I had din-well, I'm not entirely sure to be honest. He's probably in the attic." Lisbon replied, ending sheepishly and barely masking it. She leaned her hips against the table, arms crossed.

"He's not getting any of this pizza." Grace defended, half joking, "If you aren't a part of the job, you don't deserve any pay."

"Agreed. But hey, this time can we add the pineapple?" Rigsby asked the team, a slightly pleading look on his hopeful face.

Van Pelt cringed playfully. "Yick. How about you go home and order Hawaiian for yourself, I'm not having any of that."

"C'mon Van Pelt, you could take it off."

"But the flavor's still there, I don't-"

"Guys, make a decision, they're on the line-" Cho said with a hand held over the receiving end of the phone.

"Whatever's good with me," Lisbon sighed, exasperated. "I'm going to go file paperwork."

Teresa walked smoothly in the echoing quiet to her quarters and thoughtlessly twisted the bronze handle as pushed on the leaden door. She haphazardly brushed her hair out of her face, and let her pupils dilate, adjusting to the dim lighting after the temporary minute of darkness. The office was cold, and the inanimate stood stock still; a lack of decorative inspiration left the room feeling quite lonely at this hour. Every speck of dust was in place, but the room left an essence of calculated disturbance. It was as if her heart reflected the scene in carnival glass: the image was twisted and turned in undefinable ways.

Lisbon shrugged the eerie thoughts off her aching shoulders, and surrendered to her cushioned leather seat. She allowed a moment of silence to exhale and calm down before resuming her work, shutting her eye lids determinedly and rubbing them vigorously. When they fluttered open once more, she had a calmer perspective and a heavy yearning for rest that deepened like a growing weight. Lisbon's eyes were unseeing as her focal point sat directly forward, aimed at a framed picture of her three rowdy brothers, sandwiching their sister between hugs.

That's when Teresa noticed it. A ring.

Golden and worn, tainted on the inside from a lack of removal.

It sat patiently, harmless. Warm.

Still warm, she observed as she clasped it in her hands. It was a couple or three sizes bigger than her slender fingers.

A moment passed before she recalled: it was Jane's ring. Of course it was. She'd glanced with "platonic" melancholy at the ring for many years, daunted by its inseparable quality to Jane and its reminder of what stood between him and happiness.

Between Teresa and happiness.

And it was lying on her desk.

The murky foreboding of minutes earlier drained to a unwilling clear as she acknowledged helplessly this symbol of resignation, this certificate of love and forgiveness.

Many symbols had been appearing lately, but Lisbon was too hopeful. Too wishful. It was insomnia. It was nostalgia. It was the pain of a loss coming back to haunt with a stronger passion. _No_.

The ring slipped from her shaking hand, and suddenly Teresa was streaming out of the office, heart palpitating in ice as she called desperately, " _We need to find Jane!"_

XxX

Forgive me for not updating this in so long; I've always had this story in the back of my mind, haunting me until I finished it, but I have an internal struggle of wanting to perfect it that keeps me from writing. Anyways.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter; I didn't add in how Jane is faring since this already has clocked in at 3,500 words!

Let me know what you think of this chapter, and how you liked the writing style; I think I've been discovering my sense of writing more and more lately, and I want to know how you like it!

Thank you so much for reading, it means the world to me that people like my story.

Please leave a review if you feel up to doing so, if not, then thank you for spending your time on my story!


	6. Why This Story Will Be Redone And Finish

Hello everyone! I realize it's been well over two years and that none of you will probably recognize this story at this point in time, but I wanted to come back. I've been thinking about redoing and finishing this story. The reason I haven't finished it is because every time I feel the urge to go back to it to finish it, I feel like finishing it would mean a loss for me.

I started out writing this story as my first longer story project. It was a year and a half after my cousin died. He was an alcoholic; got drunk one night after a week in rehab and fell down the stairs. He snapped his neck. I didn't even know it was the alcohol that got him killed until two years after his death. I think that's when I stopped writing this. I couldn't make myself commit to it anymore.

I love this series and story. If someone were to go about and flesh the show into a series of books, I would commit each word to memory. I fell in love with the show because of Patrick Jane. His Greek-reminiscent tragedy and grief matched everything I felt and all of the rage I had within me. I was developeihg anxiety and depression then, and had experienced only emotional neglect in my even younger years. I'm now 17, and am barely getting by dealing with my mental illnesses. They became severe. And now, I'm addicted to multiple forms of self-destruction, just like my uncle. His name was Tommy.

His death hurt me because I feared falling apart, just like him. I feared what my humanity meant.

I was using this story to vent. Things have changed, but always stay the same.

I want to rewrite this. Who knows, maybe it'll take me another two years. But, one day, i will finish Thisbe story, and I will publish it on this site. This story is the symbol of a grief and a brokenness that i didn't want to accept. I'm slowly starting to accept now. And I want to finally finish this, an de make it true to myself at fifteen, and at my current age.

All of this goes out to my uncle. He's a better man than I'll ever be, and maybe he blew his shot. But he did all that he could. And that's all anyone can ask for. I need to let him rest.

many thanks, and stay tuned. -Kay.


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